El amor en Barcelona
by mische
Summary: Lily Evans lives in Barcelona, Spain, and her life is just dandy, thanks very much...until a certain Mrs. Potter calls her up one morning, setting off a fireworks of events leading to more than Lily could have ever imagined. AU L/J
1. Uno

**El amor en Barcelona**

**A/N:** So! This is my first AU fic! Since I'm completely new at this, I'd like any suggestions and critique on this story! Oh, and encouragement is also received with pleasure.

I'd like to add that this "experiment" in my writing, as I like to think of it, is supposed to be a light piece. So please, no reviews of "OMG like where is Voldie! James is soooo an auror." And it's AU, _my_ AU, and this label "AU" shall from now on cover over all non-canon-ness. Kthnx.

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns all the familiar faces and places and things.

_**Uno**_

_Seven nineteen._

Bloody hell, I've lost track of time in the shower again. I dash madly from the bath into my room, leaving a trail of wet, splotchy footprints across the hall. Just a couple more minutes…if only I could find my…where is it _this_ time? And why can't I ever find it when I actually need to _use_ it!

"Gaaah!"

I shouldn't have told Catalina to go on ahead without me. She actually knows where everything is, and by "everything," I really do mean_everything_. Barmy Queen of Cleanliness and Order around here. Not that it's a particularly large flat, or even "_modesto_" in size, as the advertisement had bragged. And as much as I complain all the time about how cramped our rooms are, I promise to dear old Merlin that I won't ever, _ever_ complain about the size again if I find my—

_There_ it is! Lying oh-so-innocently on the dresser, all but taunting me with a singsong-y, "I was here all along, you blind old bat!" (To which I most certainly would counter, "I am _not_ an old bat. I'm not even _old_, thank you very much.")

Grabbing my wand, I expel all thoughts of rowing with a stick of wood. Now, what was I going to do with it? I can't bloody _think_ when I'm so rushed like this. Clothes! Need. Clothes. I fly through my closet in a frenzy. My towel-wrapped hair is still spraying cold droplets all over the place, and I can practically see Catalina rolling her eyes at the wet spots everywhere.

Oh. _That's_ why I was looking for my wand. I perform a quick drying charm on my hair, and with another twirl of the wrist, it winds itself into a bun. I love instant hairstyling charms. Now, back to the clothes. Rummaging through my clothes rack, my hand impulsively yanks at a peek of pastel green material. Light, soft dress robes, the kind that makes me think of tender shoots and sparkling summer days. Not bad, not bad at all. Since when did I own this? Oh well, no time to ponder that. I jump into them. Glancing at the mirror, I hastily dabble some light makeup on my face. Good enough. I whip my head around to check the time, and I almost start hyperventilating. I am _so_ late. He is going to _kill_ me.

And where is my purse?

About eight minutes later, I manage to control my panicking enough to Apparate out of the flat.

The gilded, ivory-white house flashes into my vision, with windows blazingly lit and all. A flush of conversations, mixed in with the music floating somewhere over my head, strikes me forcefully. I breathe deeply, inhaling the strong, briny smell of the ocean, and release a sigh of relief. I'm here. Better late than never. And he can't possibly notice that I'm late. I could've just been mingling; the crowd is thick. People, people, people everywhere, all along the shore and on the cushiony sand and a bit inland, where large white tents stand tall over food and drink and sleek round tables, each surrounded by four or five or seven chairs. What I would do for a house like this on the beach! Alvarez has too much money for his own good. He's the host of this party, another one of his lavish galas, another opportunity to show off and step even higher in the political world with incessant flattering of his invitees, who are all, of course, high-profile wizards and witches. Except for me.

Well, I could technically argue that I'm not exactly an invitee, only a minion under his office, and therefore forced to come to these parties and look good for Alvarez.

Anyway, I should probably be on the lookout for him. He'll call me over, like always, to some lot of hoity-toity folks, and I'll be trapped, Devil's Snare-style. The more I struggle, the more I'll have to stay. What a twisted high society. I start walking down toward the refreshments in my deliciously-comfortable-but-probably-too-casual sandals. Soft sand creeps between my toes with each step.

"Ah, there she is! ¡_Oye_, Evans! Where have you been?"

It's him! How does he _do_ that, just spot me less than two minutes after arriving here, while I can't even find my wand half the time? He's with his usual crowd of high-profile officials. I force myself to grin, not grimace, and sweep over to Carlos Alvarez.

"Must have missed me," I say innocently while smiling widely at the surrounding wizards and witches. All of them are old, at least ten years older than me. I can't get away now.

"Gentlemen, this is _Liliana_—"

"Alvarez, _please_," I interrupt, cringing visibly at the Spanish version of my name. "It's Lily."

"Of course, of course!" Alvarez chuckles. "Everyone, please allow me to introduce _Lily_ Evans, one of our Heads of the Spanish International Office of Law. Lily, this is Luiz, Ronaldo, and Elzira from the Association of National Portuguese Security, Erik, Sofia, and Andor from the Norwegian Ministry, Lorrae from the Ministry in Australia, and Dylan and Matthias from the International Federation of Warlocks."

"Very pleased to meet you all." I extend my right hand to the nearest one, who's wearing deep maroon dress robes and a matching hat. Ronaldo, right? I've forgotten already. This is going to be one long night.

I need another drink. _Now_. I wonder if he's finished with that pathetic excuse of a joke…

"And _then_!" the plump, pink-faced man exclaims. He pauses, biting back the punch line. Dramatic effect? Could be, but needless to say, it's hardly working. I hope in vain that he'll just hold that breath and shut it for the remainder of the night.

"What?" urges the woman on my right. I resist the impulse to turn my Evil Glare of Doom upon her. Why, oh why would _anyone _ever try to egg him on? She's the bony-faced one, with the sharp chin, hair slicked back in a ponytail, and mismatched dress robes. _Very_mismatched dress robes. Honestly, mauve and yellow? I don't like her one bit. She's obviously caught onto my escape plan and is trying to stall its execution.

"Then! The Auror says, 'Well, I can't, Minister, because you're _sitting_ on it!'" Our resident joke-teller throws his round head back in a roar of laughter, spurring our small circle of an audience into chuckles, loudest of all from the bony-faced one. Genuine or polite, I really can't tell. For the sake of all good humor, I hope it's the latter. I cannot _stand_ another second of this. I need a drink.

I nod slightly to the others and smile in what I hope to be a _most_ gracious manner, before I slip out of the group and head toward my sanctuary. The refreshment table. I swear, I come here just for the food. I snatch another glass of light, bubbly pink punch. It slips down my throat, amazingly smooth and rich and tickles my entire mouth. The food and drink here are always delectable, as if apologizing for the company. Oh hors d'oeuvres, you almost make up for all the pain and dreadful conversation I've suffered at these parties. I reach for another appetizer, some sort of sticky fruit tart. I figure that I should reward myself for withstanding those awful jokes.

"Ahh! Lily! _There_ you are!" I barely have time to spin around before a pair of long, tanned arms attacks me.

"Catalina!" I give a small shriek. So, so incredibly relieved am I at the moment. "Where have you been?"

"Me? Where have _you_ been?" she accuses. I give her a _look_. In her airy tone, she finally says, "I've been hiding out here in the tents."

"You cow! And leave all of the boring old snores to me?"

She cocks her head and leans in with a smile. "Oh, they're not all boring old snores. Believe me, there are some _good_ lookin' ones here tonight!"

I roll my eyes at Catalina's never-ending quest for a suitable male counterpart, but I survey the scene anyway. It's the same: well-dressed (or at least _trying_ to be "well-dressed") and powerful wizards and witches up and down the stretch of the beach. Most of them have gray streaks in their hair and are wearing outdated dress robes. You would think that these ridiculously rich folks could at least pay someone to dress them well.

"Couldn't stomach another bad one from Goldie, huh?" Catalina snickers, nodding slightly in the direction from which I came. The same pink-faced man is wearing deep golden dress robes and, from the energetic look on his face, telling another one of his "jokes."

"I'd rather eat a Blast-Ended Skrewt." I gulp down the rest of my drink, savoring the sweet, pinching taste on my tongue, and set the emptied glass down on the table.

"What, and waste all of this lovely food?" she laughs. "Who is he, anyway? Another one Alvarez kisses up to?"

"Probably," I snort.

We watch the crowd in silence for a moment. Then, in a cluster of middle-aged women standing down by the shore, I see someone familiar. The faraway kind of familiar, like a childhood schoolmate or a striking stranger on the street. I blink, not quite believing my eyes. I blink again, and again. It's no hallucination; it's her. She's here, at the department head's annual bash. The hair, the ridiculously colourful dress robes, everything. Confusion sloshes around in my head.

What is she doing here?

"See, see, over there! There's one!" Catalina nudges my side sharply and shakes me from my stupor. "The tall, built one with the long hair. Oooh, _delicioso_."

"Huh? Where?" I jerk my head to the left.

"Don't be so obvious!" she exclaims quietly. "There. In the dark green." She giggles behind her hand. I make gagging noises behind my own after catching sight of him.

"He's _old_!" I hiss back. He looks like he's already in his late thirties, even early forties, though he has nice hair, dark and swept back, and a square jaw. Decent enough in the looks department, I suppose, if you could forget about his age for a moment. And I do approve of the dress robes.

"All right, all right, I'm going over there to talk to him!" she says excitedly. She puts her glass down, pats her intricately fixed-up hair, and walks off determinedly.

"But—but wait! I—ah…well then." She's out of earshot. Nobody can stop Catalina when she's on a mission, and for a man at that matter. But I'm so alone! Vulnerable, yet again, to the swirling currents of people around me, all threatening to suck me into their conversations. Maybe I should simply wander around, but _look_ like I'm walking somewhere, purposefully. Yes, good plan. I start to head back down toward the ocean when I think I hear someone calling my name. I pause and look back over my shoulder. No one. I turn back around and take three steps before I hear it again. _Someone _is shouting my name, or I'm going nutters.

"Lily! Lily Evans! Is that _you_?"

I freeze. It's her. She's spotted me. The one and only Lynn Potter.


	2. Dos

**El amor en Barcelona**

**A/N: **Writing this has been quite the experience, and I know I'm just getting started. I've just fallen in love with the possibilities in AU, and I scribble down random bursts of thought I have in class. No other story I've written has gripped me like this one. I'm hoping that's a good thing.

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns all the familiar faces and places and things.

_**Dos**_

Yep, that is definitely Lynn Potter, my former boyfriend's _mum_, who's not even supposed to be in this country. But here she is, in Spain, in Barcelona, at my boss' party.

It's a mad, mad world.

"_Lynn!_ What are you doing here?" I'm not even thinking (never a good sign) as the words just spill out from my mouth. My voice is loud and an octave higher than normal: I'm squealing. I'm squealing, and I'm hurrying toward her with a huge grin stretched across my face. I smell flowery perfume as she laughs shrilly, hugs me ferociously.

I met her on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters back in Sixth Year. I had just started seeing James. We were both going home for the Easter holidays, and James, spotting his parents as we stepped off of the train, tugged hard at my hand.

"C'mon, they want to meet you."

"What? But I—" I groped for an excuse. "I look a mess! And what do I say!" He didn't seem to hear me as we started making our way over toward the couple. "James!"

"You look pretty. You always do," he dismissed, shooting me a grin. "Don't worry. It's just my mum and dad."

But I hated making first impressions. I believed that I was a very multi-faceted person, and my mood at the moment dictated which side of me was reflected. If all went badly, I could even pull off a remarkable act of clumsiness or a careless comment, misinterpreted as offensive. I was scared stiff. They were his parents! His _parents_! What were you supposed to say to the man and woman who raised your boyfriend?

"Relax," James said as they came closer. "They're not going to interrogate you or anything—Mum!" He released my hand as his mum came flying at him.

"James!" She gave him the longest hug known to the history of mankind. I'd never felt more awkward in my life while standing there and trying not to look too out-of-place.

"James!" A tall, tall man that could only be James' dad strode over and clapped him on his back. He caught my eye and smiled warmly. "And…?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but James' mum was quicker. "Lily Evans, yes? Finally!" She instantly locked me into the same hug she'd given her son. Quite the hugger, even with strangers.

"Lily, meet my mum and dad." James' face was awash with amusement. I'd no idea why. The circumstances far from amusing. I would've glared, but the sensible side of me commanded focus. _Good impression…good impression…good impression_, I repeated to myself. I could do this.

"Hi, Mister and Missus Potter," I edged my first words into the conversation.

"Pleasure to meet you, Lily," his dad nodded, offering a hand. I took it and shook. He remarked to James, loud enough to ensure my hearing, "She's just as pretty as you said," and winked. My face warmed in the breezy spring air.

"She's absolutely gorgeous!" James' mum said. I felt my eyes widen a bit before I lowered them, all the while willing for the tingling heat on my cheeks to disappear. "But James, why didn't you tell me that we were inviting guests over the holiday! The house is a mess! And your_room_!" she exclaimed. Mister Potter rolled his eyes as James stifled a laugh and at the same time attempted to look ashamed. I, meanwhile, was thrown. This woman wanted me to stay over during the holiday after knowing me for less than five minutes?

"Oh, but I'm not staying," I said, a bit too quickly. Did that sound rude? I panicked for a recovery. "James just—er, I just wanted to meet you."

"Bosh and tosh!" Missus Potter waved a hand dismissively. "We'll have you over!"

"Mum, really," James cut in. "I didn't invite Lily for the holiday. Her parents are here, too. They're probably looking for her."

"Oh, all right," she said, before quickly adding, "But next time, huh?"

I couldn't help but laugh a bit, my tension dispelling. She sounded so much like a little girl begging for her friend to spend the night at her house. I found myself grinning, "Sure, next time."

"Oh, Lily, Lily, Lily," Lynn sighs, then jerks me in for another tight hug. "It's been so long. You look gorgeous, darling!" She steps back and looks me up and down.

"You too," I say. She shoves my shoulder playfully in response and rolls her eyes. Dark, flyaway hair bounces over her shoulder in her laughter. "Really!" I insist. I do mean it. She's wearing dress robes with glowing pinks and greens and yellows, not unlike paint splashed and alive on a canvas. She's like a rainbow beam in the darkening evening; somehow, someway, the outfit flatters her, as it would no one else. She reminds me of those glossy models, graciously flaunting wondrously stylish but highly impractical garments.

"I love your dress robes, by the way."

"I thought you might." She grins. "So? What are you doing here? In Barcelona, of all places to see you again!"

"Well, let's just say the British would have none of me, so they transferred me here," I say. "I like to think of it as a promotion of sorts."

"Oh, you were too good for them, the old bores," Lynn says. "So is this the reason I haven't heard from you in such a long time? Because you've been here?"

"I know. I've been so incredibly busy. It's been an adjustment period." An utterly pathetic excuse. I've been here since September, four months now. Even after James and I went our separate ways, Lynn and I kept a steady correspondence. She was like my best friend, only a generation older, a godmother with whom I could gossip and shop and laugh and share secrets.

Now that I think about it, I really can't put my finger on why I haven't written. Some part of my insides twists in guilt.

"Ah, I know, I know, darling. Moving to a whole different country! But you look like you're doing splendidly. Are you working for Alvarez?"

"Indeed." I lace a slight sigh in my response.

She leans forward with a hint of secrecy. "Don't you think he's a flattering fool? He said I looked like one of his twenty-year-old secretaries. Hah!" Lynn snorts, but I can detect a faint, pleased look on her face.

I laugh. Alvarez definitely has quite the flattering tongue. "How do you know him?"

"Oh, I know his wife, Maria. Lovely, darling woman. We worked together ages and ages ago. I let her know I was just, oh you know, stopping by, and she of course forced me here."

"Ah."

A brief silence.

"So? How are the boys?" she asks with a teasing tone.

"What boys?" I scoff automatically, with my best I-don't-give-a-care smile.

Lynn laughs again. "Oh, you can't be serious! A looker like you?"

"Maybe they're scared of a woman with power," I smirk. Her eyes smile, waiting a beat. I continue. "But really, there is no man. Hasn't been one since I've gotten here. Well, at least one that's lasted for at least a couple of dates."

My admission comes out easily, more so than I thought it would. I know it's because it's Lynn I'm talking to. I never did have problems telling her things. She presents herself as so open and somehow so careless of others' judgments, in everything from her style of dress to her political opinions. How could that not rub off a bit?

"That's terrific!"

I'm almost offended. "It is?"

"Oh, Lily dear, you haven't asked why I'm in Spain in the first place."

"Why are you in Spain, then?" I say, cautiously, because she's grinning that slightly frightening grin. And—_oh no_—I realize in a flash. It's got to do with _him_—

"James is here!"

The shock freezes me for a moment. I lower my voice and start scanning the crowd of faces over Lynn's shoulder. "Here? As in, _here_here, right now?"

"And what if I say yes?" she says, the question posed in a light tone. When I don't answer, still searching the faces, she chuckles and shakes her head. "He's not here, darling. Do you wish he were?" A sly look on her part.

"I, er…" Against my will, I feel heat flame from my chest to my neck and face. I've got to think of a good response, and fast. Nothing that would reveal any degree of being desperate – because I'm not –, but nothing too offensive. "Well, ah…to see him again would be…nice," I finally say lamely.

I mentally slap myself. _"Nice"?_ It would most certainly not be "nice." Not that it would be horridly unpleasant, but it would be – I can't describe it. It could be a lot of things. Awkward, for one. Maybe the meeting would be filled more with empty pauses than conversation. Then I'd feel helpless and clueless and try to connect the pauses with nervous laughter while he babbles on pointlessly, perhaps about something like, oh, I don't know, speculations on the Quidditch World Cup. Or it could be reminiscent and not much more, simply "Remember the time that…?" and laughter, but not possibly rebuilding all of the empty space that the last years have created. It could be a lot of things, but not simply "nice." Not that.

"Nice?" Lynn says.

But I can't tell her all these things. I make a neutral "hmm" sound and avoid eye contact, staring instead down the beach. It's beautiful tonight, the thick, black waves rolling forward and back, forward and back.

"Just nice?" she prods after a moment. Her tone, thank goodness, is not disapproving, but curious.

"Yes," I say slowly, a bit faintly. "It would be…nice."

The ocean breeze tugs on the remaining pieces of the conversation and scatters them into the night. I'm still watching the black waves climb forward and crumble back, and I remember the last time I heard from James – about half a year ago. A brief, but still charmingly warm birthday card, enclosed with a gift of a beautifully bound sketchbook. He never forgot my love for art and how, even though I was less than average at drawing, I would constantly doodle and try to emulate lights and shadows and balanced curves. I replied with an equally brief thank-you letter, and that was all.

"Because, you know, he wants to see you again," she says, her voice airy-light, like the breeze. Somehow she caught the conversation again from the wind brushing through our hair.

But her statement is anything but light, and I blink. "He does?" I say, stunned. James Potter wants to see me again? What does this mean? Does he simply want to see an old friend from school? He can't possibly be looking for something more?

"At least, I think he wants to."

**A/N: **Phew. That was an interesting chapter. I kept on getting these crazy, random ideas, but having to go back and connect them all together. Then, ta-da! This chapter. Please review and tell me what you think! (Yes, you, I know you're reading this! Muhahahah.) (Um, ignore that. The laugh, I mean.)

.mische.


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